Shatter
by Mistress Sezza
Summary: One-shot. Post Avengers. The crushing darkness within him leads him to seek out the darkness within her, and they love the twisted and dangerous game they play. But what happens when it all becomes too much? Shatter and bleed for me, Loki. WARNING: Contains smut, S & M, Dom!Natasha, Sub!Loki


It was dark. Not that he minded, he rather liked the dark. He sat alone in the dark and waited, the shaft of moonlight that peeped through the curtains and played over the carpet and the dark wood of the coffee table was the only source of illumination. Recent events played like a movie in his mind and his fists clenched at his sides.

A door opened.

"Back so soon?" She drawled. She could already tell he was here.

She flipped on the lights and it was bright. So bright, too bright.

She stalked towards him but he dared not look up, not yet.

Her delicate yet strong fingers grasped his chin and his heart began to race at her proximity. She forced his chin up, forced him to look, to see her beauty, her control. He didn't want to look, he didn't deserve to see, but he wouldn't be allowed to look away now that she made him. The corner of her plump, red lips quirked upwards as she noted his internal struggle. As much as she pretended to be stoic and uncaring, she liked this just as much as he craved this.

Natasha leaned in and kissed him. It was forceful and passionate and her tongue delved into his mouth immediately and Loki hungrily reciprocated. She smelled so sweet and tasted far too good, too good for him. He reached for her, large hands firm around her hips, her warmth seeping through the thin material of her shirt.

She broke the kiss, leaned back, and slapped him across the face. "Did I say you could touch?" She stepped back out of his reach and he downcast his eyes. Submission. Humiliation. Pain. He needed it, _craved_ it. Punishment. He deserved it and she gladly gave it to him.

"On your knees." He immediately complied, sliding off the couch and onto the floor. She stepped forward again, until his nose was inches from her crotch and he could smell her arousal even through her pants. Seizing the hem of his soft tunic, she pulled it over his head to expose his leanly muscled frame. She grabbed a fistful of his silky black hair and wrenched backwards, pulling until it was painful and a few strands came loose in her hand. "Is this what you wanted?" She smirked down at him, enjoying the dominance. "Is this what you came here for?"

She unzipped her practical work pants and let them slip down her legs, kicking them away once they'd pooled at her ankles. Her underwear was silky and forest green. He liked green. And he knew she knew that. She stripped off her shirt as well, and lifted one leg and braced it on the arm of the lounge behind him, canting her hips forward and pressing her wet cunt into his face. "Get on with it then." She drawled in disinterest.

Eager to please, he pulled her panties to the side and delved into her folds, licking and sucking and nipping and doing his damndest to drive her wild. After all, he wasn't called Silvertongue for nothing. She tried not to make a sound, that would be too much reward for him, but her head tilted back in ecstasy and her other hand joined the first in his hair, urging him on. He inserted one long finger, followed by a second, and he curled them in the way he knew she liked. It wasn't long before she came, finally letting out one long moan as she did.

She pushed him away when she was done, seating herself on the coffee table behind her and crossing her legs to take him in. He remained kneeling, head bowed but his emerald eyes gazed up lustfully at her through his lashes. His lips glistened with her and his chest heaved and his neat hair was ruffled rather sexily. His fists rested on his leather-clad thighs but she could see them twitching, he was aching to touch himself. He was _very_ hard.

Smirking, she got up and crossed the room to her small linen closet. Pushing aside sheets, she reached towards the back and pulled forward a purple box. "Pants off." She commanded as she rummaged around inside for a moment before finding what she was looking for.

"You remember this don't you?" She asked as she reappeared in front of him. "Yes." He answered, now completely naked. It wasn't the first time she had used the riding crop on him. She held it out, letting the leather tip glide over his shoulder and across the definitions of his chest. It was soft. He didn't want soft, he needed pain.

As if she could read his mind, she drew back and brought the crop down harshly on his skin, raining sharp slaps down on him until his chest was red and welted. His cock ached painfully. "Is this what you like?" She taunted, dragging the soft tip over his abs and down his thighs. She ran the tip gently up the underside of his straining cock and he whimpered. "So, _pathetic_." She growled, and she whipped the crop across the inside of his thighs. He yelped as welts formed, but he knew he deserved the pain, he deserved the humiliation, he _deserved it_.

"You disgust me." She ranted, "You wanted to rule us all and yet here you are on your knees for me, so weak. You're not even a god, are you? You're a fake, a nothing. Just a monster." It's true, he knew it was true. "Look how far you've fallen now, begging for the subjugation of a mere mortal." She pressed the ball of her foot against his hard cock, kneading with her toes and he cried out at the contact. "Do you like this? Do you!" She smacked the crop across his face, leaving a stinging red mark along his cheekbone. "Yes, Natasha." He hissed as she drew the crop softly across the welts on his chest and thighs.

"What would Thor say if he could see you now? What would your father or mother say?" She pressed her foot harder against his crotch and he groaned. "But they're not really your family are they? So I guess they wouldn't care. You're like a disease to them, something they just can't get rid of. You're just a spoilt brat; you wouldn't know the meaning of true suffering if it hit you in the face."

"Look at the mighty Prince Loki." She dropped to one knee and wrapped her hand around him and he moaned loudly at the contact. It always sent a little thrill down Natasha's spine to see that his girth did not allow for her thumb and fingers to even come close to touching. "Do you like to come crawling on your knees to me? Do you like to beg? Is this what you want?"

And Loki would say 'yes Natasha' and she would bring him to the edge and keep him there and make him beg and plead for his release before she gave it to him and took all the pleasure he had to give. This is how their game worked.

But tonight, tonight Loki did not submit to the punishment and humiliation he knew he deserved, he could not. Tonight, Loki broke. All the things she had said tonight and all the other nights he had come to her, all the things his father and mother and brother had said, all the hurtful things that anyone had ever spat in his face, all the things he'd done, all those he'd killed or lied to – they all finally broke him. And all that Loki was, all that he had become, shattered, fragmented, tore apart, and left him bleeding.

"No." His voice broke on the single syllable and Natasha froze mid-stroke, instantly knowing that this was not part of the game, this was not how it went. She watched him shatter in front of her, drawing his lanky legs up to his chest and ducking his head behind his knees, muttering softly. "No, no, no…. I don't want… I can't… I…" He was on the verge of hysteria and for all Natasha's honed instincts and calm façade, she had no idea what to do.

But just as suddenly, he fell silent again and Natasha thought he had pulled himself together. Until he raised his head, just enough to peer up at her through wet lashes, just enough for her to see sparkling emerald eyes that were now dull, detached – dead. "Agent Romanov," his voice was low and calm in a way that freaked her out. "Please, kill me." The air was suddenly so thick that Natasha couldn't breathe, but she carefully kept her shock and panic from her expression.

She had suspected that one day he would break, that one day it would all become too much and he would either go _completely_ batshit crazy or he would have an unsatisfiable urge to repent. Both she and Fury were counting on the latter. But she never thought he would ask her _that_.

And through his weakness, she also became weak. And his hurt and despair became shared. "Oh Loki." She crumbled with him, no longer the Black Widow, just Natasha, and she wrapped her arms around his shaking shoulders. And they shattered and fell apart together, like waves breaking on a beach in the twilight, and they tore themselves apart for an eon.

When Loki finally stilled, Natasha lifted her head to find her own cheeks were wet. She hadn't cried since, well, ever as far as she could remember. "Foolish, jaded boy," she whispered into his black hair, "How are you so blind to so much bright, shining love?" She stood then, and offered him her hand.

And Natasha took Loki to bed, no dominance or submission or hatred or self-loathing. But they rolled in soft sheets and pieced themselves together, fixing, finding, repairing. To be made painfully whole. And to him, Natasha whispered bittersweet truths, "you are not a monster", "you are loved", "you are cherished", "you can be redeemed", "have hope". And, as they climaxed together, the jagged pieces of Loki had only just begun to repair, but Natasha allowed him to snuggle into her side, and she into his, and as legs and arms and hearts tangled and twined, for now, it was enough.


End file.
